


The True Master

by Margot_le_Faye



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 10:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12680451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_le_Faye/pseuds/Margot_le_Faye
Summary: What if Draco had realized he had become the Master of the Elder Wand? Oh, the possibilities. This is just one.Written for the Reverse Challenge 2014 at Hawthorn and Vine.  Instead of artists creating works based on fics, authors created fics based on artwork submitted for that purpose. In this case, the image was of a manip entitled "Master," which showed Draco with a wand, Hermione looking pensive (not into a Pensieve), and a crown beneath which were the words "You Can Have It All."





	The True Master

Not everything worth learning is taught in schools. Even an institution as venerable as Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has limits to its curriculum. Some things are too complex, even dangerous, to impart to schoolchildren. Others too obscure or trivial, of interest only to scholars of the arcane. 

But merely because something cannot be taught in school does not mean it cannot be learned. Families hand down traditions and ways of doing things generation to generation. Masters impart lesser trade secrets to apprentices, and greater ones to journeymen. Old books and fading scrolls conceal hidden gems of long forgotten lore. 

Or, if you are Draco Malfoy, you can have a lot of tosh about wandlore drilled into your eight-year-old brain when your doddering old grandfather, Cygnus Black, comes to visit for an extended period of time and decides that he should tell you, his only acknowledged grandchild, all about the hobby he acquired late in life. Very late in life, whatever the Black Family Tapestry shows. The 1938 date woven beneath Grandfather Black’s name, patently ridiculous in light of Aunt Bellatrix’s properly recorded 1951 birth, was owed to Grandmother Druella Rosier Black’s desire to remove a few years from her own record. An overenthusiastic flick of the wrist resulted in rather more decades being shaved from her age than planned. As she was on the tapestry by marriage rather than blood, the spell affected Cygnus’ dates, as well. Vastly amused at having his supposed precociousness in becoming a father at thirteen thus preserved for posterity, Cygnus made no attempt to correct the error. But as he had in fact been born in 1879, he was over a hundred when he attempted to pass on his considerable knowledge of wandlore to a worthy heir. 

Said worthy heir being much more interested in Quidditch statistics than in the correct spells to hollow out a length of wood and stuff it full of guts, heartstrings, tailfeathers, and other nasty bits that were supposed to properly channel a wizard’s innate magic to the desired end, Draco made a polite pretense of hanging on Grandfather Black’s every word while he was, in fact, going over in his mind the most recent winning moves of the Falmouth Falcons, displayed in a match held two weeks before. But just because Draco wasn’t listening didn’t mean he wasn’t hearing, and his attention was engaged when his grandfather got into the bits about wandlore that were actually of interest to an eight-year-old boy. Like the story of how Peregrine Blagfort came up with the idea of making wands from Venetian blown glass instead of wood, with predictably explosive results. Or, Sancia Fulminatus’ more successful experiments with salamander skin for wand cores, which were still in use today, though only in highly specialized auxiliary wands for dragon tamers. 

And then there were the tales of the Elder Wand, and weren’t those stories to set a young boy’s heart racing? Tales of blood and death and glory; secret deeds, 

daring thefts, and all with the most powerful wand ever made as the centerpiece and ultimate prize. Now Draco really did hang on Grandfather’s every word, a thousand questions on his lips. Had Death really made the wand? Where was it? Who owned it? 

What did it look like? 

Grandfather’s answers to the first three questions were: probably not; nobody knew; and the wand maker Gregorovitch, the last anyone heard. But the fourth question had a more definitive answer. 

“As it happens,” Grandfather Black said, withdrawing a handsome leather case from the inner pocket of his robes and undoing the clasp, “It looked exactly like this.” Opening the case, he withdrew a long, slender rod of carved wood, decorated with a design like elderberries down one side. 

“Is that it?” Draco breathed in awe. “Is that really the Deathstick?” 

“Merlin, no, boy,” Cygnus chuckled. “It’s a model, made by the late Aristiedes Milonas, himself. Got it from his idiot son-in-law right after Milonas died. Didn’t know what he had, and was delighted with the Galleons I was willing to pay for it. Never did make a go of the old man’s business, for all he apprenticed with him for nearly fifty years. 

“So, Artist...Arist...Mr. Milonas was a wandmaker?” Draco ventured. 

“One of the greatest,” Grandfather nodded. “Oh, I know Olivander is considered best of the best these days, and Milonas wands had a bit of a reputation for being temperamental, but there were times when his work was nothing less than genius, and this was one of those times. Gregorovitch had let it slip that he had the Elder Wand and was working to duplicate it. Milonas thought that was a right bit of idiocy, because elder is a dangerous wood to work with. More than one wandmaker has met his end when an elderwood wand he was trying to craft backfired on him. But as Gregorovitch kept on preening, Milonas held his tongue. Pretended he didn’t believe Gregorovitch could possibly possess the wand, until the old fool was goaded into showing it off, just to prove he really did have it. Milonas got a good look at it, and that’s when he decided to make his own duplicate.” 

“Like Gregorovitch,” Draco nodded, then frowned in puzzlement. “But if Milonas thought Gregorovitch was an idiot for trying to duplicate the wand, and if it was so dangerous, why did Milonas try to do it, too?” 

“Because they were doing two different things for two different purposes,” Grandfather Black explained. “Gregorovitch wanted to recreate the power of the wand to make himself more powerful. Milonas wanted to recreate the wand to make himself a better wandmaker. He wanted to study the art of it, how the interaction of the parts made something far greater than the sum of the whole. This wand was in the nature of a model, an experiment.” 

“So it’s a fake?” young Draco said, a little disappointed. 

“Not a fake,” Grandfather corrected him, “a reproduction. It’s not intended to fool anyone, although I suppose someone who lacked an understanding of the art of wandmaking might take it for the original. It does have all the elements of the Wand of Destiny—the same wood, the same core, the same carvings.” 

“But if it’s made like the real Deathstick, and it was made by a real wandmaker, why isn’t it as powerful?” Draco asked, perplexed. 

“Oh, if we knew that my boy!” Grandfather Black chuckled. “Even I was never admitted to the deepest secrets of wandmaking. I can only tell you that it doesn’t have the one thing every wand needs, that only a wandmaker can supply: the proper spark. This,” Grandfather said, flourishing the model wand and murmuring a soft incantation that caused a spark of light to appear on the tip, “is a rather ordinary wand, no more powerful than anything else in Gregorovitch’s shop, or Olivander’s. Probably less so, because it was never intended to be a proper wand. Now, a truly powerful wizard trying to use this wand will probably find it works nearly as well for him as his own ever did, for all but the most demanding of spells. But for most of us, it’s going to be a barely adequate substitute.” 

“But if Mr. Gregorovitch has the real Elder Wand, why didn’t you buy it from him, Grandfather, instead of just buying a copy?” Draco wanted to know. 

“Well young-fellow-me-lad,” Grandfather laughed again, “you’ve been listening to my stories about the Elder Wand. Let’s see what you’ve learned. Why  didn’t  I buy it from Gregorovitch, then?” 

Draco was a clever child, and he found that, once he thought about all the stories of the wand, and everything else his grandfather had been nattering on about all day, the answer was obvious. 

“Because the wand chooses the wizard, and the Elder Wand won’t chose a wizard who tries to buy it,” he said excitedly. “That’s it, isn’t it, Grandfather? It’ll only choose a wizard who proves he’s worthy of the wand by being stronger than the wizard who holds it. The Wand of Destiny can’t be bought. It has to be taken.” 

“Very good, my boy,” Grandfather Black beamed, pulling a pack of chocolate frogs from another inner pocket of his robes, and handing the lot to Draco. 

Draco never forgot that conversation, and whenever his grandfather visited, the boy was sure to ask for more stories of the Deathstick’s bloody history. Cygnus was delighted to tell him everything he knew, and even allowed him to hold the model wand, teaching the boy a few surreptitious spells without setting off the pesky underage magic alarms the Ministry was so fond of. In this way, young Draco grew quite familiar with the appearance of the Elder Wand, as well as its history. 

He was, therefore, quite appalled to find it hanging at the side of the most useless old wizard ever to be granted the exalted position of Hogwarts Headmaster, when he finally went off to school at age eleven. A short amount of reflection served to convince Draco that this was simply another copy. Rumor still named Gregorovitch as the owner of the wand, for one thing, as tales of a certain merry-faced thief had never been permitted to circulate abroad. Beyond that was the simple failure of the Headmaster to do anything the least interesting with the most powerful wand in the world. Draco was absolutely certain that if Dumbledore truly possessed the Wand of Destiny, nothing could keep him from using it as it was meant to be used: amassing power and wealth and making his mark on the wizarding world. 

It would be many years before Draco understood that Dumbledore had left a greater mark on the world than any of the wand’s previous owners. But by then, the wand had an entirely different master. 

During Draco’s second year at Hogwarts, his grandfather passed away. Though one hundred and thirteen was a respectable age, even for a wizard, Draco was saddened. When he learned that amongst other bequests, Grandfather Black had left a certain leather case and its contents to his only grandson, Draco was moved. But the bond between himself and his late grandfather which had been created by wandlore seemed to him too private to share. He didn’t tell anyone exactly what the case contained, but took it immediately to his room. His family correctly surmised that the case contained some sentimental keepsake the boy did not wish to discuss. This was thought right and proper, and he was never asked about the matter. Malfoys never pried. At least, not amongst their own. 

Draco soon acquired a magical display case, suitably charmed to show the model wand to best advantage, preserve the wood in ideal climatic conditions, and at the same time, hide it from prying eyes. Which was to say, anyone who didn’t have express permission from Draco to view it. The case had pride of place on a bookshelf in Draco’s room at Malfoy Manor. Despite his sentimental attachment to it, the wand wasn’t the sort of thing to bother bringing to school with him, so Draco didn’t, but left it in his room. 

That decision ultimately saved his life. 

A few more years passed, years in which Draco absorbed and extolled all the pureblood supremacy beliefs and teachings of his ancestors, and waited, with bated breath, for the ascendancy of the one who would lead them out of the shadows and limitations of the Statute of Secrecy into the glorious new day of pureblood exaltation over both the Wizarding and the Muggle worlds. It could not be long, now. 

Other things, less pleasant things, happened in those years, though, principally through the agency of one Harry Potter and his annoying friends. 

Of particular annoyance was Mudblood Granger. 

First, with her constant handraising and know-it-all prattling she’d managed to fool most of the professors into thinking she was actually a good student, worthy of the House points she earned and the high marks she received. Draco knew better. She was nothing more than an arse-licking little goody-goody, playing up to their teachers in order to improve her class ranking. Such tactics, had they been employed successfully by a Slytherin, would have elicited his deepest admiration. Executed flawlessly by a filthy Mudblood, they excited only outrage and loathing. 

He’d been rather pleased when Granger had spent half of their second year with her mouth forcibly closed by a basilisk’s reflected stare. Draco briefly nurtured the hope that when she recovered—as, he was disappointed to learn, Madam Pomfrey was certain she would do once the mandrakes had matured enough to be used in an antidote—Granger would find herself too far behind in her studies to complete the school year, and would be left back, or even expelled. He never believed she really did pass all the examinations she was required to take to demonstrate her ability to keep up with her classmates. Especially not with the high grades their professors insisted she’d achieved. Her success had to have resulted from a combination of kissing up and playing on their sympathies. Again, something that could only be admired in a Slytherin. In a Gryffindor, it was to be abhorred. And in a Mudblood, it incited feelings of the utmost revulsion. 

Then, in their third year, there had been  The Slap.  Over that disgusting, dangerous Hippogriff. Something happened with  The Slap.  Something Draco didn’t like thinking about. Something Draco couldn’t  stop  thinking about. By then, her teeth had shrunk to human size from their previous rabbit-like proportions (thanks to him, though she’d never acknowledged the debt she owed him, the arrogant little swot), and her wild hair, while still ridiculously bushy, had somehow acquired a bit of curl and shine that might, in a pureblood witch, have been very nearly almost...attractive. 

But that wasn’t what Draco thought about when he thought—incessantly—about  The Slap.  What he thought about was the blaze of fire in her eyes, the flush of rage in her cheeks and the creamy softness of the palm of the hand that met his own cheek with such forceful effect. 

Draco Malfoy had been brought up to believe that a Wizard never, ever, raised a hand in anger to a witch. A wand, perhaps, if she required lessoning. But never anything as ill-mannered, as brutish, as  plebian,  as a hand or fist. 

Oddly, that wasn’t why, feeling that soft, yet forceful palm against his flesh, he’d run from her. Or, not only why he’d run. 

By the time of the Quidditch World Cup, things had got twisted around, and he was obsessed. Granger was still a hated Mudblood, but he’d begun to feel oddly possessive of her. She’d been tormenting him for years, besting him in classes, getting in his way.  Slapping  him. Somehow all those things made her  his  Mudblood: his to taunt, his to torment...his to warn away from the Death Eaters gathering to rough up any Mudbloods or Muggles they could find after the match. 

It wasn’t the idea of Granger floating upside down with her knickers on display like some of the other Muggle women that he minded. In fact, imagining her with her robes over her head and her long legs exposed, actually seeing whatever small scrap of cloth covered her bum and her naughty bits, whether it was white cotton or perhaps a girly flowery print, maybe a scrap of silk, a scrap of lace... Draco shivered in excitement. Until he imagined all the others who would get to see those knickers and Granger’s legs if she were held helpless in the Death Eaters’ power. It was the idea that anyone but him, any eyes but his own, would witness her humiliation that was the sticking point. He made sure she got the message to flee. 

A few months later, she’d walked into the Great Hall of Hogwarts on the arm of Viktor Krum, her wild mass of curls tamed into a sleek style, dress robes of periwinkle blue floating gracefully about a figure suddenly revealed to be willowy and shapely, and things twisted further. And now the nature of the humiliation he wished to inflict on her grew at once more vague and more clear, confusing even to him. The only issue on which he had absolute clarity was that Hermione Granger’s downfall would come at his hands, at his leisure, and it would come privately, the privilege his alone to savor. 

None of which mattered in a very few months after that. 

The Dark Lord returned. The triumph of Blood Purity was at hand. Proper order would be established, with Mudbloods and their Muggle kin put firmly in their place, blood traitors in disgrace for the shame they’d brought to wizard kind, and the magical world firmly set on the new course of glory and power it should have taken all along. 

It was nearly two years before Draco realized what an utter load of shite it all was and just how very royally buggered they all were. Sometime after his father had been sent to prison and Draco had allowed the Dark Mark to be branded into his arm, he began to understand that not only was the Dark Lord an egotistical madman who butchered his most loyal followers almost as enthusiastically as he slaughtered his enemies, but, even more unforgivably, he wasn’t even a pureblood, but merely a half-blood. Just like Snape. And Dumbledore. 

In other words, the three most powerful wizards of Draco Malfoy’s lifetime were, every one of them, half-bloods. And the Dark Lord’s own father hadn’t even been Muggle-born, but had been an actual Muggle. Proof positive that the superiority of pure blood was an even bigger load of shite than the Dark Lord, himself. If Draco had needed more proof than the mere existence of Hermione Granger, muddiest of Mudbloods, She Who Slapped. Also, she who consistently earned more House points than any other student in their year, got nearly all straight Outstandings on her OWLs, and was doing NEWT level work in fifth year. It had taken some time, but Draco had finally admitted to himself that she couldn’t have accomplished  all  those things simply by flattering her professors. 

Still, being the self-serving Slytherin he was, and saddled, at the time, with a task meant to redeem his father and keep both himself and his mother out of danger, Draco might have ignored all that and continued to follow the Dark Lord, if not unquestioningly, or even unhesitatingly, at least putatively, had it not been for one thing. The Dark Lord took to  Crucioing  Narcissa when he felt Draco was slacking. And his favorite lieutenant, Auntie Bellatrix, instead of interceding on behalf of her younger sister, had giggled like the madwoman she was, and encouraged her Master to keep going until Draco should be properly lessoned. When he looked around at the faces of the other Death Eaters present, Draco saw amusement and boredom, and in one or two cases, a bit of discomfort. Draco was certain they were uncomfortable because the Dark Lord’s treatment of Narcissa brought home their own vulnerability—for if the powerful Malfoys could be abused so thoroughly, then anyone of them could find themselves similarly abused—not because they had any compunction about seeing a loyal pureblood woman so debased. 

It put paid to the lies he’d been taught all his life about the superiority, the true nobility of pure blood. A lady of superior, noble, pure blood, who by everything they purported to believe, should have been an object of worship and admiration, was writhing in the dirt at a madman’s feet, being tortured as a lesson to her son, and not one of those spineless bastards had so much as looked offended. Draco had kept his mind locked and his head bowed, lest the rage he was sure could be seen in his eyes and the murderous thoughts tumbling through his head be too easily revealed. In that moment, as Narcissa’s screams reached a crescendo, if Draco had believed he could get off an  Avada Kedavra  before any of the others could stop him, and that Voldemort would stay dead, this time around, the war might have ended right there. As it was, he knew neither was possible, so he raged in silence. If he ever got the chance, he swore to himself, if he ever got the chance.... 

Once returned to Hogwarts Draco forced himself to fix the Vanishing Cabinet to make sure Voldemort had no further reason to show Narcissa the sharp end of his wand. Draco went up the tower to kill Dumbledore on the very simple, primal, survivalist principle that it was either kill or watch his whole family be killed before himself enduring a particularly painful and prolonged end. He might even have gone through with it, had steeled himself to commit red murder with a green spell. 

But first he had to cast a simple  Expelliarmus. 

Even that might not have changed matters. Dumbledore’s wand had started to fall off the edge of the astronomy tower. If Draco had let it go, history might have taken a very different course. Instead, the wand was summoned back to Draco’s hand by an automatic, non-verbal  Accio.  Because, even though he loathed the woman now, Bellatrix had been right about some things, and that’s what Auntie had drilled into him from the moment she began training him to duel after she escaped Azkaban in his fifth year: Always secure your opponent’s wand, first. Don’t leave it lying about for him to recover, or for some other fool to pick up and turn against you. If the wand doesn’t fly into your hand, then you bring it there, because a wand is a weapon, and you don’t leave weapons lying about in the presence of your enemies. 

The instant the wand was in his hand, Draco  knew.  The pulsing surge of power was stronger than anything he’d ever felt in his life. Even his own wand, so comfortable in his hand, didn’t feel as good as the wand he’d just taken from Dumbledore. 

It really was the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick, the Elder Wand. 

Draco was so terrified he nearly pissed himself, fumbling the dangerous bit of wood up his sleeve and out of sight, only half listening to whatever it was Dumbledore was maundering on about. Because his grandfather’s stories said that this wand he’d so thoughtlessly brought into his own hand, this wand with its bloody history and its Thestraltail core, could only be truly mastered by someone who had mastered Death, and Draco knew himself no such master. Not even a journeyman, or apprentice. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he was the apprentice’s assistant’s third bootblack’s house-elf’s lackey, when it came to mastering Death. 

But he was going to have to become all of that, and more, very quickly. Because the alternative was to become the weakest master the Deathstick had ever had, which in turn would make him the most vulnerable, and that could only lead to him being the shortest lived. 

Especially since there was a very powerful, very Dark, very murderous, very insane half-blood who would probably cream himself over the thought of this wand. Ten seconds after Lord Voldemort discovered the wand’s existence, and Draco’s possession of it, Draco would be dead. If the Dark Lord even waited that long. Draco was more certain of that fact than he was certain the sun would rise in the morning. 

And, Merlin, what a hellish disaster it would be if that nutter got  this  wand. That raving lunatic in possession of a weapon as deadly as the Wand of Destiny was a surefire recipe for death, disaster and destruction, not just for the Muggles he was supposedly targeting, but for everyone Draco loved, for the entire wizarding world. 

Which meant only one thing: Draco Malfoy’s self-interest had shifted. To ensure his own survival, and the survival of everything that meant anything to him, Voldemort must be defeated at all costs. 

Unfortunately, it took him too long to come to this realization. When the offer Dumbledore was making finally registered, just as Draco was about to agree, the Death Eaters broke into the tower, and Snape ended Draco’s best chance at survival in a flash of green light. 

Draco was pulled out of Hogwarts by Snape, dragged unresisting back to the Manor. The instant before he was Apparated away, Draco slammed shut the doors of his mind, not daring to reveal even the slightest crack before his demented Master. 

Instead of lauding Draco for having disarmed Dumbledore, a wizard Voldemort himself feared, Draco was ridiculed for having failed to carry out his task. But he wasn’t  Crucioed.  Draco had groveled at the Dark Lord’s feet to keep that from happening. To hell with Malfoy pride, or any kind of pride, at all. There was so much more at stake here than anyone’s pride. And bugger him for a buggering, buggered, bugger that he’d never seen it, before. 

The Elder Wand, the prize he’d wanted to claim when he’d been a heedless eight- year-old child with more greed than sense, was fickle. A single  Crucio  and the cursed piece of wood would switch its loyalties from Draco to Voldemort. And that would royally bugger the entire buggering world. 

So, Draco acted the part of a cringing, whining coward, until he was allowed to slink back up to his room, like a petulant child sent off to bed without supper. 

He couldn’t have eaten, anyway. He had too much to do. What he wanted to do was march back down to the dining room where the Dark Lord was holding court and hit him with an  Avada Kedavra  so strong it would turn the whole damned Manor permanently green. But the Dark Lord had already shown an ability to come back from death, had bragged about possessing the secret to immortality. Draco wasn’t about to reveal himself until he was entirely certain that he could overcome whatever protections Voldemort had surrounded himself with. Meantime, Draco had to make sure no one guessed the secret he, himself, was keeping. 

Draco let the Elder Wand slip out of its hiding place in his sleeve and into his hand. Once again, that sweet rush of power filled him. If this was what it was like when he hadn’t mastered Death, Merlin alone knew what he might achieve if he ever really got control of the thing. 

Draco acted quickly. First, he opened the display case and pulled out the replica wand. Now that he had both wands, he could really appreciate the skill Milonas had needed to make his copy. But, he could also appreciate the vast difference between copy and original. Draco’s first use of the Elder Wand was to cast a mirroring illusion spell, a complex bit of magic that caused one item to take on the outward appearance of another. The spell flowed from the Elder Wand smooth as silk, with exceptional results. To anyone who wasn’t aware of the spell, the Deathstick now looked exactly like the Hawthorn wand Draco had been carrying since he was eleven years old. He next cast a quick transfiguration spell so that the wand holster strapped to his forearm could hold two wands, instead of one. Once again, casting the spell was smooth, nearly effortless, accomplished far more easily than the same spell with his own wand would have been. Draco slid both his Hawthorn wand and the Milonas wand into the holster, then Disillusioned himself before Apparating to a point just outside the grounds of Hogwarts. Once there, he very carefully and stealthily made his way inside. 

There was enough chaos going on that he was able to manage things easily. The wards had not been reset. They still recognized him as a student, allowing him to get inside. After that, it was a simple matter of getting close enough to the Astronomy Tower to drop Milonas’ copy of the Elder Wand in a spot where it could be easily found, and be assumed to have fallen off the tower with Dumbledore. He didn’t doubt that people would be looking for it. They’d want to bury Dumbledore with his wand. And if the wand was known to be buried with Dumbledore, no one would have reason to come looking for it elsewhere. 

Once he’d found a suitable place to leave the Milonas copy, Draco crept carefully back through the wards once more, out the gate and off the grounds. Nobody was close enough to hear the crack of Disapparition, and within moments, Draco had returned to his own room in Malfoy Manor. 

He’d been gone no more than twenty minutes, surely not long enough to be missed. Exhausted by the nights events, Draco collapsed on his bed, fully dressed, two identical looking wands tucked securely in his holster, and was almost instantly asleep. 

For the rest of the summer, and into the next school year, Draco Malfoy had two missions in life: make everyone think he wasn’t worth the effort to hex, and learn everything he possibly could about mastering Death. 

Therefore, having Harry Bloody Potter, Ron Pauper Weasley, and Hermione She-Who-Slapped Granger captured and dragged into his home, hiding behind the most pathetic excuses for disguises imaginable, while Draco’s entire family demanded he identify them positively so that the Dark Lord could be summoned to make an end of them, was about the single most hellishly inconvenient thing Draco could imagine having happened. 

That was before, having been forced to stare into Potter’s swollen face, Draco had surreptitiously used the Elder Wand to cast a Legilimency spell. Potter had always been pants at Occlumency. 

What Draco found there almost caused him to lose his lunch. Horcruxes. The madman had made Horcruxes. Plural. As if one of those obscene little trinkets wasn’t vile enough. Potter was on a mission to destroy all of them, and Draco was more than willing to let him have at it. Anything he could do to hurry Voldemort along toward his ultimate annihilation he would. Right now, that meant getting Potter, Weasley and Granger out of Malfoy Manor alive. 

It took some doing. He had to continue to insist he couldn’t be sure if the prisoners were who everyone expected them to be. He had to watch as Hermione was tortured, something which got under his skin in ways that didn’t bear thinking of. Then, before Draco had figured out a plan to get the prisoners to safety, Dobby had staged his own rescue effort. Draco could have kissed the old elf for solving that problem for him. He had others. He not only had to do a bit of slight-of-hand to exchange the Elder Wand for the Hawthorn one he always kept up his sleeve, but had to time the casting of his Hawthorn wand away perfectly, to make it look like he’d been disarmed by Harry Potter when, really, he’d cast a protection spell on himself before he’d even entered the room. 

Only when the trio had been safely rescued, the Dark Lord’s rage safely vented elsewhere, and the holidays ended allowing Draco to return to Hogwarts could the real work begin. 

When Draco went back to school, he brought with him a number of obscure volumes from the family library. Given who was running the place now, there was no question of his ability to get a pass to the Restricted Section. He could have waltzed in to take every Dark volume off the shelves and up to his dormitory, and no one would have turned a hair. But he correctly deduced that there might be a few volumes even the most trustworthy of students wouldn’t be trusted with, volumes which would not be found on the shelves. He was correct. Unfortunately, the Dark Arts manuscripts he’d surreptitiously removed from his family’s shelves —which would appear to be treatises on Quidditch or advanced potions essays, to anyone who saw them—weren’t much more help. Still, there were hints, references to other works, difficult to acquire. He couldn’t simply write away to Flourish and Blotts to special order a copy of  Rogneda’s Heart,  which purportedly held some of the lost writings of a Dark witch from the twelfth century, known for the unusually high number of Inferi she could command. The book had been on the Ministry’s banned list for centuries. Still, if being able to order an army of Inferi about didn’t speak to Mastery of Death, Draco didn’t know what did. He therefore applied himself to the tedious business of finding an ostensibly reputable rare books dealer who didn’t mind the occasional less-than-reputable transaction. Purely for academic purposes, of course. Unfortunately, when Draco finally got his hands on the witch’s diaries, and checked the passages that had been referenced in other works, they told him little more than what he’d already gathered from other sources. 

That was the problem with research involving original source materials. The things you needed were not easy to get hold of, and you wouldn’t know if they were worth getting hold of until you had actually got hold of them. Usually after spending months of effort and a hoard of Galleons. A dozen times, he spent weeks or months tracking down such tantalizing clues. A dozen times, they led nowhere. Draco begrudged the time spent on these efforts more than the Galleons. He had as close to an unlimited supply of the latter as existed anywhere in the wizarding world. It was his supply of time that was fast dwindling 

And then, one day, it had all run out. 

Draco had made only negligible progress in his quest to master Death when what came to be known as the Final Battle of the Second Great Wizarding War erupted all around him one day toward the end of his seventh year. Suddenly, Harry Fucking Potter was running around Hogwarts and the Dark Lord was at the gates, threatening to tear the whole school apart, stone by stone, to get to him. 

And then Crabbe and Goyle had shown up to let Draco know that they’d seen Potter slip into the Room of Requirement. 

“Ain’t he got your wand, then?” Goyle had asked. As Potter had taken all the wands he’d stripped from their owners at the Manor, including the Hawthorn wand Draco had tossed aside, that was, technically, quite true. The fact that by now the Deathstick, currently illusioned to look like Narcissa’s wand, felt more his own than the Hawthorn wand ever had was quite beside the point. 

“Get him, get your wand back, and the Dark Lord rewards all of us,” Crabbe added. 

“Cheers,” Draco said sourly. There was something in the way Crabbe had spoken that made his words less of a suggestion and more of a demand. But there was no time to deal with that, now. There was no time to deal with anything. He went with them to the Room of Requirement because he couldn’t reasonably do anything else. 

His world, already falling apart, quite literally burned to cinders in that room. The Draco Malfoy who entered it was not the Draco Malfoy who was flown out of it on Harry Potter’s broom. 

Oh, the Elder Wand had let him keep more control than anyone realized. The memories everyone left that room with had been slightly altered. And if only Vincent hadn’t attacked Granger, and hadn’t made that stupid, stupid, mistake, using Fiendfyre he was nowhere near skilled enough to control.... No use crying over spilt potion. Especially when there were other things to cry for. 

For over a year, Draco had been constantly on edge, knowing himself far from Voldemort’s favor, knowing that his death could come at any moment on the Dark Lord’s whim. So much fear had been exhausting. Yet for all that, Death hadn’t touched him, not really. His parents, his family, his friends, had all come through unscathed. 

Now, in attempting to serve Voldemort, Crabbe was dead. Draco’s own lungs were still seared by the smoke and fire that had come far too close to him in the Room of Requirement. As Draco and Goyle sat stunned, Potter and his friends ran off to finish their quest to destroy the final Horcrux. Draco hoped they’d manage it, because he was bloody well tired of it all—tired of the war, tired of Voldemort, and he was most heartily tired of being afraid of Death. 

What was the point of fear? Everyone died. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, anyone could do about that. Even Voldemort’s Horcruxes weren’t really making him immortal, were they? Harder to kill, yes, but the irony was, you had to live before you could die, and by slicing and dicing his soul into increasingly tiny bits, Voldemort had become so much less than human, had had to spend so many years as a disembodied consciousness before he’d managed to acquire a body again, that he couldn’t be said to have had much of a life, at all. 

Draco was not going to repeat that mistake. Crabbe’s death had solidified something in his mind. He’d wasted an entire year trying to figure out how to master Death, to better control the Deathstick, and now he realized he’d got it all wrong. That quest was pointless and useless. The thing to do was to live until he died, and not waste a moment of his life worrying about when Death would come for him. Because if he lived his life fully, it wouldn’t matter if it came in a hundred years, or in the next minute. 

Death, Draco decided in an epiphany of clarity, could go fuck himself. 

As that thought took shape in his mind, and Draco fully embraced it, along his arm, snug in its holster, the Elder Wand suddenly grew warm. 

Master,  the whisper came, heard only in his mind. Draco smiled. 

Eventually, he began making his way down through the Great Hall and later, with half the school, crowded to the front doors where Voldemort was returning in triumph with Harry Potter’s body. 

Draco was mildly surprised, even conscious of a pang of regret. The Milonas wand shouldn’t have been able to pull off that particular Unforgivable. Still, Potter had destroyed all the Horcruxes but Nagini, currently draped about Voldemort’s neck like a bizarre ascot. Draco would do for the snake, then Voldemort, and that would be that. 

When Neville got to Nagini before Draco could, that was even better. And, when, as battle was joined and swept into the Great Hall before Potter turned out to be as lively as Draco thought he should have been, he was actually quite pleased. 

Draco moved slowly, carefully through the crowd, closer and closer to the two wizards who were dueling with words rather than spells. It was nice of Potter to fill in the blanks, though learning about Snape’s death was every bit the blow that Crabbe’s death had been. Later there would be time to mourn those losses. Now, if they were to mean anything, Draco had to let them go and focus on the drama unfolding before him, waiting his moment. And all the while, the wand hummed in it’s sheath, whispering encouragement, approval, suggestions.... 

As Potter droned on, Draco realized two things: Potter was too bloody idealistic to even think of casting the  Avada Kedavra  that wanted casting, and when Voldemort’s faux wand failed to succeed in offing the boy who lived a second time, that madman would begin to look more closely into what had gone wrong. 

Then Potter dragged Draco’s name into matters, and that pretty much sealed the deal. No going back now. Draco was actually relieved. He had two choices. He could Disillusion himself, and make it look like Voldemort’s spell had backfired because Harry had been right about the wand, thereby allowing Draco to keep his identity as the true master of the Elder Wand a secret, or he could do this publicly. 

The wand hummed in distress. Draco understood. It was tired of hiding, and so was he. He moved forward, decision made. 

And hesitated. That he’d only mastered Death to become the True Master of the Elder Wand less than an hour before was the thing that saved him. He remembered what he’d found in Harry’s mind when he’d hit him with another Legilimency spell in the Room of Requirement, that Gregorovitch’s bragging had led more seekers than Aristiedes Milonas to his door. There had also been a merry-faced thief, destined to use the wand to become a Dark wizard of extraordinary, incredible power. Until Dumbledore had made a point of going after him. 

Grandfather Black had taught Draco every scrap of lore related to the Deathstick he had known. Which was to say, every bit that anyone in the Wizarding world had known. One thing was very clear to Draco: going public with your possession of the Elder Wand was as good as putting a target on your back and declaring open season on yourself. Draco had already been targeted by one megalomaniacal Dark wizard lusting for power, and he rather thought he’d prefer to pass on having any others come after him, thanks ever so. 

Secrecy it was, then. 

While everyone’s attention was fixed on the two wizards facing off against each other, Draco found a spot where no one would notice the Disillusion he cast on himself, or the other spell he cast so that when the time came for him to speak the words he needed to say, no ears but his own would hear them. Then he quickly made his way around the edge of the crowd, stealthily picking his way until he stood just a few paces behind the Boy Who Lived. For this to work, the green light of the spell he was going to cast would have to look like a rebound of the one the Dark Lord was sure to cast, so he had to stay close to Harry. 

“Because if it does,” Harry was saying just as Draco moved into place, “I am the true master of the Elder Wand.” 

Good luck with that,  Draco thought sourly. And then all three wizards acted at once, two shouting spells everyone could hear, and one murmuring a far more powerful one beneath the concealment of a spell to mute sound. Draco’s plan worked perfectly. The model wand had no more power to unleash that particular Unforgiveable than ever, while Draco’s  Avada Kedavra  unerringly hit its target. Voldemort’s expression of surprise remained frozen on his face as his body toppled to the floor. 

Wild celebration broke out almost immediately. Voldemort was finally dead and gone, his chief generals either dead along with him, being rounded up by Aurors, or fled. 

Except for the Malfoys, whose spectacular, if inexplicable, change of loyalties at the eleventh hour had been instrumental in defeating the Dark Lord. Not that anyone realized exactly  how  instrumental. Still, the news that Narcissa had protected Harry Potter by deliberately lying to the Dark Lord had spread quickly. Her actions counted for something. The Malfoys were unmolested as they sat by themselves in the Great Hall, given a wide berth by both sides in the late war, which suited Draco down to the ground. 

From their relatively quiet corner of the Great Hall, Draco let his gaze wander over everything until it came to rest on a certain feisty Mudblood. She was cuddled up against the side of the redheaded pauper. Well, the boy had just lost his brother. Draco would let him have the girl’s comfort. 

For now. 

Draco continued to watch Granger while his parents spoke in soft voices about their next moves. There was the Manor to be cleaned and redecorated, completely obliterating any trace of their most recent houseguest’s extended visit. Bellatrix’s body had to be claimed and decently buried.  Decently  in this case meaning a private family ceremony kept out of the public eye, in a grave that only family would ever be able to find. 

Most importantly, there were the negotiations with the Ministry to be done, making sure that the little matter of Lucius’ escape from Azkaban was overlooked, and that the remainder of his sentence was commuted to house arrest. Draco was confident that the Wizengamot remained stuffed full of enough venal berks that his parents could handle that matter without the assistance of either himself or the Elder Wand. A visit to the Malfoy vaults at Gringotts should be all that was needed to bring things to a satisfactory conclusion. And if not...well, his wand had a few suggestions as to how the Wizengamot might be  persuaded  to take a more lenient view of Lucius’ situation. 

The wand had other suggestions it was whispering, and Draco found himself more and more inclined to go along with them. 

Because he’d continued to watch Granger, Draco saw the moment when she and Weasley appeared to be listening intently to a spot of vacant air right in front of them, and then got to their feet, making their way to other end of the Hall. 

“I’ve got something to do in my dorm,” Draco abruptly informed his parents, standing up. “It may take me a bit, all right?” 

“Packing your trunk?” Narcissa assumed. “Yes, I want you out of this dreadful school as quickly as possible. You’re close enough to the end of term that it shouldn’t matter. We can find a tutor to supply any remaining instruction you need to get through your NEWTs.” 

Draco and his wand had begun to consider alternative plans for sitting his NEWTs, but now was not the time to explain those to his mother. He simply nodded and promised he would be down in perhaps an hour, then left the Hall a bare moment behind Potter and his friends. Another Disillusion spell, then one to muffle the sound of his feet, and he was following them undetected up to the Headmaster’s office. He was delighted to hear that Potter had no intention of keeping the model wand, because if he’d decided to use it, there were going to be questions raised that Draco would rather remain unasked. A bit of sleight-of-hand and he repaired Harry’s original wand at the moment Harry tried to use  Reparo  with the model, and all was well. The three were soon on their way back to the Great Hall. 

Then it was just a matter of waiting until they were in a short stretch of corridor that held tapestries and statues rather than those damned busybody portraits, and a few stunning spells took care of the rest. He quickly had Potter and Weasley tucked away in a broom closet, and that left him free to carry Granger into an unused classroom near by. 

He ended the spells he’d put himself under, made sure Granger was sat comfortably in the large chair normally taken by the professor, confiscated her wand then carefully roused her. 

“What....” she began, shaking her head to clear it, then realized who was standing over her. “Malfoy?” she said indignantly, looking about for her wand. 

“If I meant you harm, you’d be dead by now,” he said pointedly, holding her wand aloft for emphasis. She wasn’t in the least intimidated. He could see that having just helped put paid to the Dark Lord might have that effect on someone. 

“Oh, so stunning people and dragging them into deserted classrooms is harmless, is it?” she said waspishly, standing up. Apparently she felt that being in the chair put her at a disadvantage. 

“Well, it’s not as if we’ve got the best history, that I could expect you to come with me voluntarily.” 

“Twigged to that, have you?” she said sarcastically. “What made you think I wouldn’t trust you? The fact that I was tortured in your home or the fact that your mates tried to  Avada  me a few hours ago?” 

“Do me the justice of remembering that I refused to identify you at the Manor, and that I tried to convince Goyle and Crabbe not to kill anyone,” he said with as much dignity as he could manage. 

“So we could be delivered to Voldemort,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest defensively, clearly unimpressed. 

“Which, if I’d wanted to do, I could have done at the Manor. Was expected to do at the Manor, in fact.” Granger bit her lip, weighing what he’d said. 

“That is true,” she finally admitted. “All right,” she said with a sigh, letting her arms relax and fall to her sides. “What is it you wanted to say?” 

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. Everything depended on the next few moments, what he would say, and more importantly, how she would respond. 

“I wanted to say that I’m...sorry. For...everything, really. Going back to first year. For believing everything I was told about blood purity, for saying unforgivable things to you, for trying to make you feel less than you are. Which is, of course, a remarkable young witch. You are brilliant, you are beautiful, everything I was told you couldn’t be. And I am most heartily sorry that, even for a moment, I ever thought you were anything less. I know it’s wrong, now. Not just the things I said and did to you. Not just that Voldemort was a raving nutter who didn’t deserve the loyalty of a dead skrewt, let alone the devoted allegiance my family and so many others gave him. It’s wrong to judge people by who their ancestors were.” 

“What should they be judged on, then?” she asked, but her voice was gentle when she said it. 

“What they do,” he said, and took a deep breath. “And what they fail to do.” 

“Dumbledore said you didn’t succeed in killing him, or hurting anyone else because your heart wasn’t in it,” she surprised him by saying. “And Harry says you were lowering your wand, about to take the Headmaster up on his offer of protection when the other Death Eater’s got there.” 

“How did Potter...? Oh, yeah. Invisibility Cloak."

“Yes, well.” They fell silent.

“Well,” he said finally. “I just...wanted you to know.” 

“Okay,” she nodded. “I think...apology accepted.” He smiled, then, the first true smile she’d ever seen him give, perhaps the first true smile he’d ever made, and she was surprised at how it transformed his face, softening his pointed features, revealing something she’d never noticed before. 

Draco Malfoy was a rather handsome bloke. 

“Thank you,” he said with heartfelt sincerity, and she found herself smiling at him in return, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. 

“Oh, that’s quite all ri—“

  
“ Imperio, ” he said, still gracing her with that dazzlingly beatific smile. 

Draco ordered her to sit back down in the chair, and cast the spells he’d half-dreaded casting. To his relief, she hadn’t gone far with the red-headed pauper. If he had anything to say about it, she never would. 

He intended to have quite a lot to say about it. But not through the use of the Imperius curse. He had no interest in acquiring a puppet. He wanted a spirited, living woman in his bed, with her own mind and her own will. And he wanted her there because she wanted to be there, not because she had no choice but to obey whatever commands he gave her. 

Well, perhaps there were circumstances under which her obeying whatever commands he gave her would be quite all right. If she agreed to it before hand. 

He really didn’t have time to indulge those thoughts just now. Draco gently placed his hand under Granger’s chin, staring down into her wide brown eyes, which currently bore a dreamy expression. Quietly, he murmured another spell, nodded in satisfaction as he saw it take effect. 

“You won’t believe what I’m going to say, and you won’t remember this conversation anyway, but there will be a small part of you that will hold onto the important bits. They’ll take root in your subconscious, and exert just that tiny bit of influence. I’ll just have to hope that’s enough. 

“Granger, you’re too good for Weasley. He’s an academic slacker who will never give you the kind of intellectual stimulation you crave, will never offer you the challenge you hunger for, will never be able to give you the kind of partnership your soul cries out for. So. See him over the summer if you must, but don’t you dare throw yourself away on him, not when you deserve more. 

“I can give you so much more, Granger. More than you can possibly imagine.” He whispered other words, as well, and finished with a soft, chaste kiss to her plump lips, groaning at the sweet taste of them. Still, he forbore to use the Imperius to make her kiss him back, for all the Deathstick whined in disapproval. If he wanted her, it seemed to feel, he should just take her. 

But he wasn’t going to take her until he could take her properly, and for that he was prepared to wait patiently. 

A few minutes later, Harry, Ron and Hermione, memories appropriately adjusted, went back to the Great Hall. They remembered a chance encounter in the hallway and a stiff apology from Draco, accepted grudgingly by Weasley, graciously by Harry, and with slightly more warmth by Granger. The heartfelt private apology he’d made to Granger earlier would have to be made all over again, but that was quite all right. He knew, now, how she would react, and was rather looking forward to repeating it again next year, when the two of them were back at Hogwarts while Weasley and Potter were far away in Auror training. 

Oh, yes. Something to look forward to, indeed. 

Draco went up to his dorm. With the Elder Wand, packing his trunk took no more than a few minutes, allowing him to return to the Great Hall and rejoin his parents within the time he’d promised. Arrangements had been made, and they would shortly be taking a Portkey back to the Manor. 

Draco said he was perfectly happy to leave, and beguiled the few minutes until their scheduled departure by taking a final look around the Great Hall. 

His eyes were drawn, as before, to Granger. 

As if she felt the heat of his gaze, she turned in his direction. He nodded a polite acknowledgement, which she returned with a small smile and a wave. That was enough, for now. 

Once returned to the Manor, Draco listened patiently as his father droned on about his plans for the future. This was hardly a burden. Draco’s own plans were markedly similar. With one important exception. 

Lucius might be disappointed at the prospect of half-blood grandchildren, but he’d just have to get over that, Draco thought, absentmindedly caressing the smooth, ancient piece of wood secured in his wand holster. The power of it sang beneath his fingers, warming him, soothing him. 

And if Lucas didn’t get over it...well, Draco wasn’t anxious to  Imperio  his own father, but if that was what it took to maintain domestic peace, so be it. The wand hummed its agreement. Draco smiled, visions of wild brown hair tossing in pleasure, and blazing brown eyes burning with passion, dancing happily in his head. She might take some convincing, but he had a feeling that even the great Hermione Granger was going to be no match for the persuasive powers one Draco Malfoy would soon be bringing to bear. His smile grew wider, taking on a predatory cast at the thought, and Draco gave his wand a final, affectionate pat. 

The next few years unfolded precisely the way Draco had hoped they would. The Manor was restored to its former glory, along with the Malfoy fortunes. His aunt’s funeral and those of her husband and brother-in-law were utterly private, their graves utterly hidden from eyes that might not be entirely respectful. His father never had to set foot in Azkaban again. Lucius was given a five-year house arrest during which time he was forbidden the use of a wand. This was followed by another year’s probation, with a wand carefully monitored by the Ministry. After that, he was once more an entirely free man. 

Meanwhile, Draco had eventually brought Narcissa around to the idea of his returning to Hogwarts for an eighth year, as so many of his classmates had done. Including both Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, who felt that the quality of their education in that final year, with the Carrows making a muck of things, had been somewhat lacking. 

As he’d predicted, Granger returned, while both Potter and Weasley were far, far away. 

Draco lost no time in making the most of having Granger away from their influence. The so-called eighth years had their own Head Boy and Head Girl, the two who had been chosen for those positions by Dumbledore at the end of their sixth year. Granger hadn’t returned to school to take up her position, while, the politics of the time being what they were, Voldemort’s withdrawal of his favor from the Malfoys had ensured that Draco was denied the post his grades had earned for him. 

On their first day back at school, they were shown the office they would be sharing. Once they were left alone to settle in, Draco took the opportunity of repeating the apology he had made the year before. It went even better, this time around. 

They worked together amicably, but Draco was a man on a mission, and by the end of the year, they had gone from being cordial co-workers to being friendly, to being friends. It wanted only the final demise of her relationship with Weasley for him to move things even further along. 

Draco had exerted quite a bit of influence to have the Ministry’s newest hire in the secretarial pool, one Lavender Brown, moved into a recently vacated position in the Auror’s administrative support staff. Her new office was outside the training headquarters where Harry and Ron spent a good portion of every day. Draco was a big believer in exploiting available opportunities. In this case, that was all that was needed. While Hermione was far away in Scotland, Ron was free to notice Lavender, who was considerably more mature than in her “Won-Won” days. Living through a war tends to have that effect. Lavender and Ron became a couple, again, and this time, they remained that way. 

Draco made quite sure he was available to provide as much of a shoulder to cry on as Hermione needed. Not as much as she would have the previous summer. He’d already successfully weaned her away from her unsuitable attachment by that much. 

A few months later, he helped her completely cut the ties. 

Not everything worth learning is taught in schools. And some things are not so much learned as discovered. A kiss can be a revelation of textures and tastes, while the number of kisses it takes to trail up a soft white shoulder to a slender neck may not even be quantifiable. There are epiphanies to be found beneath undone buttons and discarded robes, and the holy, sacred nature of the knowledge to be gained from the moment when flesh joined to flesh reflects soul joined to soul is something human words lack power to describe. 

One year out of Hogwarts found Draco and Hermione both employed as junior members of the Ministry, already with reputations for being movers and shakers who were quickly climbing the ladder to positions of higher authority. It was widely expected that in about twenty years, a Malfoy would be Minister of Magic. Which Malfoy it would be, people remarked with a pointed glance at the large heirloom betrothal emerald gracing Hermione Granger’s ring finger, remained to be seen. 

Five years out of Hogwarts saw Draco taking the first formal steps on that path, with his appointment to a very junior position on the Wizengamot, one of the youngest wizards ever to have achieved such a post. As he gave the expected acceptance speech, his betrothed looked proudly on. 

Draco smiled at her, his heart full. He was on his way to having everything he ever wanted. And he knew what he owed it to. The wand humming contentedly in its sheath at his side was responsible for so much. It had guided him, helped him, led him to exactly where he wanted to be. Within ten years, he would be the youngest Minister of Magic ever elected. And then he could get the Wizarding World on the right path, not of pureblood ascendance, but perhaps a guarded relaxation of the more rigid limits of the Statute of Secrecy, a more complete integration of Muggle-borns into the Wizarding world, and perhaps even something of a rapprochement between the Muggle and Wizarding worlds, themselves. So long as Hermione was at his side, and the Elder Wand answered to his summons, life couldn't be better. 

It was good to be the true Master of the Elder Wand. 

From across the room, Hermione smiled in pride and happiness. She, for one, has always realized that not everything worth learning is taught in schools. Some things must be deduced from empirical observations. Others can be learned from rigorous application of scientific principles, experiment, trial, error. 

And not all books in the Restricted Section of the Library at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry are written by Dark wizards. Sometimes, the Light has its own secrets to hide, lest they blind the eyes of those who try to master them, unprepared. 

But, if you are Hermione Granger, you might track down those books, properly prepare yourself, and learn spells of great and terrible power. And while you might not initially want to try out such spells without proper study and preparation, you might, a year or two after you have found one and have studied it as thoroughly and exhaustively as possible, decide that, since you were in a war and held captive at least briefly, it might be a good idea to cast the spell on yourself, just to see if anyone tampered with memories you ought to recover. 

And, as you have also made quite a study of wandlore in the course of tracking down one wand in particular, when a few unexpected memories are indeed returned to you, you might learn something that no one else except perhaps the greatest of wandmakers has ever realized. 

That the spark needed to turn a bit of wood and magical guts into a wand comes from the wandmaker, imbuing it with power from his or her own magical energy, almost giving birth to it that way. That most wands are symbiotic with their owners, feeding off the power channeled into them, and returning it, but not unmixed with the qualities the wand, itself, possesses in wood and core. That some wands are parasitic, taking, absorbing, changing, but never giving back. 

That one wand is downright vampiric, slowly leeching energy from everyone who has ever held it, and though returning that energy and power, doing so in a corrupt way that would eventually destroy the owner. Or lure others to destroy him. 

Being Hermione Granger, one would then teach oneself how to destroy such a wand, and how to replace it without its owner being any the wiser, and how to restore the soul of the man one loved before he destroyed himself. 

And how to support him as he became Minister of Magic and made exactly the changes and reforms you'd always known needed to be made. 

Hermione sighed in contentment. It was good to be the true mistress and future wife of the Master of the Elder Wand. 

**Author's Note:**

> Artistic License Alert: The birth and death dates of Draco’s maternal grandfather, Cygnus Black, are never directly referenced in the books. Instead, we have his dates from the Black Family Tapestry as it appears in the film (1938-1992) vs. as it appears in JKR’s hand-written version (1929-1979). For plot purposes, I went with the film version, with a twist. Further note: I understand that JKR was so impressed with the way Emma Watson punched Tom Felton when they enacted the famous confrontation scene in the film version of PoA, that she changed the scene in the books. In later editions, Hermione punches Draco much the way Emma punched Tom. That is JKR’s right, much as it was George Lucas’ right to ret-con Star Wars so that Greedo fires before Han. I’m not a fan of the ret-con. Han Shot First. In the original edition of PoA, it is a slap, and as far as I am concerned, it will always be a slap. That’s my canon and I’m sticking to it. YMMV


End file.
